


Train Wreck

by Kitcat300



Series: Getting rid of the Future's [2]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternative idea for early season 1, F/M, Flynn and Lucy on a train, Flynn trying to talk to Lucy, If Flynn began to doubt the journal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:33:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28510470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitcat300/pseuds/Kitcat300
Summary: After realising the journal is not all it's cracked up to be Flynn decides to talk to Lucy and screws it up.
Relationships: Garcia Flynn/Lucy Preston
Series: Getting rid of the Future's [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2088423
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	Train Wreck

**Author's Note:**

> I had no intention of continuing on from Flynn's drunken drabble but the idea of him attempting to talk to Lucy honestly that early on has an appeal. This was a simple thought that turned into a thousand words. As it came off the same thought stream I collected them together. Hope it’s not too random.

“This is all your fault!”

The tiny historian looked ferocious if flustered. Probably best not to smirk right now, but then Flynn couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything in the name of self-preservation. Acknowledging that his faith in a woman he’d met only once might be misguided? Did that count?

Plus, the woman before him was only half right.

If Lucy had just sat down with him in a calm, civilised manner they could have talked this through. If she hadn’t screamed and tried to bolt for the door there would have been no need for him to pull his gun. It wasn’t like it hadn’t hurt him to do it. It wasn’t like he’d _wanted_ to scare her. _And_ his shoulder still hurt like hell from Wyatt’s bullet. (The damn man had almost hit Lucy. What was he thinking?) The last thing Flynn needed was more drama. Correction, the last thing he needed was more drama created by other people. He was plenty good at providing it all by himself.

Like now.

“I can’t be held responsible for everything that goes wrong, Dr Preston.” Oh, if looks could kill he’d be six foot deep. “Your indignation at my choice of dinner companion certainly didn’t help.”

“Ike Clanton attempted to have the entire Earp family convicted of murder!”

“He didn’t succeed.”

There was that glare again. Definitely best not to mention how the heightened colour in her cheeks or the prim line of her lips made her look more … edible? Where had that word sprung from? He’d been thinking about kittens finding their claws and then, boom, edible. Later. He’d work it out later. When she wasn’t pouting. When they weren’t trapped on a train bound for an unfinished bridge in the last dregs of 1881.

“Can’t you at least _try_ to move this?”

Her faith in his strength was flattering. The girder must weigh three hundred pounds easy. Even without a damaged shoulder he’d never move it alone. It was, however, barring their only exit so he’d have to think of something. No matter how true - or not - the journal was, of one thing he was certain. Lucy Preston was not meant to die in 1881.

“Flynn!” There was steel in her voice. “This piece of track is not completed for another ten months. If you don’t move this…”

“Can you climb?”

“Climb?” She followed his eyes up to the letter-box style window. “Out there? Are you mad?”

True, the locomotive was rattling along at a fair clip and the rain wasn’t exactly going to make it easy but if he lifted her high enough she might be able to shimmy out of the opening, climb onto the roof and slip the bolt holding the roof hatch closed.

“I am not going out there!”

The train juddered as it sped up though another sweeping corner, knocking them into each other as several crates fell loose of their bindings. 

Lucy smelt too good for comfort.

He should have shot Logan. Flynn knew it the moment he was forced to surrender his gun. The journal obviously left out more than it said. So would it really make that big a difference to the future if the ex-special forces soldier succumbed to a debilitating wound? Because right now, without the interference of the half-witted, gun-happy, muscle-man they’d have a driver not a suicidal Rittenhouse maniac riding the engine. 

Again with the haphazard shooting. Wasn’t Wyatt supposed to be specially trained or something? Apparently he could hit the board side of a barn nine times out of ten. And again with the barrel pointing squarely at one Dr Lucy Preston on the off chance of hitting Flynn. The least he could have done was aim for the Rittengoon. Or did that require one brain cell too many?

A shot to the knee would do it. Or maybe in the vicinity of his gun hand? Nothing permanent. Just enough to get rid of him for the duration. It was worth considering.

“Either we get out of here and unhitch this carriage or we see just how far trains can fly.”

He could see the lines of frustration vibrating around his companion as she pushed away from him, scanned the space again and came to the same conclusion. “Turn around.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said turn around.” She pointed one tiny finger at him as though it had the power to move mountains. “I am not unbuttoning my bustle with you watching.”

If the train hadn’t given another jarring lurch Flynn might have been tempted to wait her out. Just for the hell of it. Lucy was seriously easy to wind up. Instead he turned and listened to the rustle of material and huffs of frustration before he finally saw the offending piece of material whistle past his ear.

“I can’t get up there on my own.” It was an admission she had to grit out.

He moved closer but didn’t touch her until he’d asked, “May I?”

Her pinched lips and narrowed eyes gave away her desire to say no but she straightened herself up and gave a stiff nod. This little professor was one hell of a woman. 

His hands spanned her waist easily, lifting her until she could find a purchase on the narrow window sill, then he shifted his hold downwards, first to her thighs, then to her calves. Determinedly he made sure to focus on the way more and more of the crates were loosening from their bindings and not on what he was touching, how she felt.

With a final swish of material Lucy’s skirts vanished through the gap. Of course, if she was feeling particularly spiteful she could bridge the gap to the next carriage on her own and unclip it from there, but he simply couldn’t see it happening. Sure, she thought he was a terrorist (not listening that hard was a skill set) and yes, she thought he was the enemy - ok, the sister thing had been a surprise but at least it confirmed the journal only said what it wanted him to know, because only an idiot would deliberately do anything to hurt the person he was trying to convince to work with him – but despite all that this Lucy Preston valued life. Not only hers but also the life of others. 

Right on cue the hatch above him scraped open. 

“I should leave you in there.”

But she hadn’t. Things were looking up. 

No point in hanging around. He kicked over the nearest crate and used it as a step up. His muscles screamed (something definitely tore) as he hefted his weight upwards and out into the rain. Everything after that was pedestrian. Slipping on the wet surface. Dropping down between the carriages. Lifting Lucy down. Peering through rain-drenched hair to locate the pin and pull it. Watching the doomed engine whistle round the corner and into oblivion.

“Quite a team.” He smiled smugly.

As the carriage slowed she started up. “You bastard! You kidnap me and drag me back to the past and…” She was obviously planning on listing all his sins in one go so he let her rant, listening with one ear.

The direct approach was not going to work on this woman. At least not his version of it. 

Showing up at her office should have proved his innocent intent. There had still been people in the building. Probably. It wasn’t like he’d crept into her house in the dead of night. 

He’d have to think of another way to convince her. How else was he supposed to decipher the most dangerous writing ever to cross his palms without its future author?


End file.
